


some call it arrogant (i call it confident)

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barista Bellamy, F/M, Jealous Bellamy, also this is me turning to the dark side, and finally writing ice mechanic, i'm weak, it's true, snarky roan, teasing and snark galore cos that's how i do, you KNOW roan lives to push all of bellamy's clarke buttons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-11 15:17:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7057771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do I get a discount if I say I’m a student?" Roan asks with a deliberate arch of a brow, making Clarke laugh.</p><p>"Not that I’d believe you," Bellamy says, giving Roan’s tied-back hair, ragged scruff and polished grey suit a disbelieving once-over, "but we haven’t done student discounts in a good long while."</p><p>Clarke shrugs easily. "Okay, maybe it’s more of a roommates discount. Which we are. This is Bellamy, by the way," she says, gesturing to the man beside her who’s being completely unsubtle about trying to solve Roan purely by glaring warily at him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where Clarke somehow finds herself becoming friends with Roan, and Bellamy and Raven are annoyed for entirely different reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part i

**Author's Note:**

> *sings* i am officially ice mechanic TRAAAAAAAASH
> 
> *sings louder* no this is not any of the WIPs i've been promising over the last two MONTHSSSSS
> 
> (title from ‘Ego’ by Beyoncé)

 

 

 

 

 

Clarke isn’t too sure what to make of Roan the first time she meets him.

 

He seems like the kind of guy who never speaks unless spoken to, never loses his balance or trips over anything or looks anything less than perfectly poised, never says ‘thank you’ or ‘please’, never rides the bus or the subway and never holds babies. She idly observes the way others go up to him for a greeting or an introduction, and she gets the distinct feeling he’s one of those people born with the magnetic knack of making everybody around him crave his approval just by walking into a room.

 

Even so, she dutifully trails along when her mother decides it’s time to introduce themselves to him, in a transparently strategic attempt to both look good to the press and try to glean helpful clues about his mother’s opposing campaign.

 

His voice is low and a very fine balance of rough and refined, but Clarke immediately notices when he doesn’t tell her mother to call him by his first name when she addresses him as ‘Mr. Gunnar’. There’s a distinct curve to the shape of his lips when he shakes Clarke’s hand, but Clarke is very aware of the fact that it’s not really a smile at all. It makes her feel like he knows something she doesn’t, and she doesn’t know if she’s unsettled or impressed.

 

(To be completely honest, she’s probably just hungry. These public debates never start when they’re supposed to, and she hadn’t had time for breakfast.)

 

Six months later, she moves two states away, starts her first year as a college student, and forgets all about Roan Gunnar for the next four.

 

That is, until he finds her at her favourite coffee haunt.

 

“Clarke Griffin?”

 

She starts at the unfamiliar rasp, craning her neck to look up from her chair at—

 

“Roan!” Her face flushes at his raised brow. “I mean, Mr. Gunnar—”

 

“Roan is fine,” he says with a measured palm, the corner of his lips pulling upward. “I hope I’m not disturbing anything.”

 

“No, it’s fine,” she says, setting down her charcoal stick and brushing off her hands. “This is probably where we shake hands or something, but, uh—” She waggles her coal-stained fingers.

 

“That’s alright,” he says, and there’s a crinkle to his eyes that makes her think he’s either making fun of her, or just genuinely amused. “Mind if I sit?”

 

“No,” she says automatically, and immediately wants to kick herself for it when he actually does pull out the chair opposite hers and set his takeaway coffee cup on the table. He looks markedly different dressed down, but it’s still pretty dang annoying to see how good he makes a thin hooded sweatshirt and dark jacket look.

 

“You’re studying art?” he asks, his assessing gaze raking over the sheets spread out over the small table.

 

“Yeah— yes,” she replies, crossing and uncrossing her ankles nervously. Thank God for opaque tables to hide ungraceful fidgeting. “Graduating in a couple months.”

 

He nods, brisk but not curt. “I wasn’t aware you’d moved here. How do you like it?”

 

“It’s a good school,” she says, awkwardly shuffling her papers into a less disorganised stack. “I like it lots better than D.C., anyway. What about you, what are you doing here?”

 

His brow lifts over the rim of his cup as he brings it to his lips. “I live here.”

 

“Oh,” Clarke says, blinking. “ _Oh_. Sorry, I thought—”

 

“I was only in D.C. at my mother’s request,” he explains, his sharp gaze moving away from hers to survey the tables around them, half of them empty. “I moved here over ten years ago. Are you here often?”

 

Clarke frowns, and then suddenly realises he’s talking about the shop. “Kind of, yeah. I’d like to say it’s the best damn coffee in town, but it’s really only because students get twenty percent off,” she says with a wry grin, tapping on her own nearly empty coffee cup with two fingers.

 

“Amazing deal,” Roan says, and even though his tone doesn’t change, there’s a slant to his expression that lets her know that, hard as it is to grasp, he’s _joking_.

 

Clarke allows herself to be pulled into conversation with him for a few more minutes, and even finds herself enjoying it much more than she thinks she would. Roan isn’t the kind of person who exudes boundless, infectious energy, but there’s a powerful undercurrent to his mannerisms that makes her think it’d be a good idea not to let her guard down just yet. All the same, he steers clear of anything to do with his mother, or hers, or D.C., or politics in general, and it’s enough for her to decide she may actually like him.

 

Five minutes later, Roan glances at his watch, humming thoughtfully.

 

“I should really get going,” he says, but without any of the polite regret people usually make sure to infuse into their tone when trying to end a conversation. Clarke appreciates him for it, and she smiles as he stands, taking his half full cup with him.

 

“See you if I see you,” she says, feeling confident enough to flash a wide smile at him.

 

He nods at her with an expression she’s definitely counting as a smile before turning to walk out of the shop.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Four days later, it’s a slow afternoon in the coffee shop. Apart from her, there’s only one other customer, who’s installed himself in the corner with his laptop and a large pair of headphones and is clicking away on his plug-in mouse with a vengeance that makes it clear he’s not just a recreational gamer.

 

So she’s behind the counter while Bellamy cleans out the filter in one of the machines, perched beside the sink and kicking her ankles against the cupboard doors underneath her and grinning unapologetically whenever he shoots her another warning look.

 

She’s too busy laughing at one of Bellamy’s grumpy rants to notice when Roan walks in the door. She ends up cutting herself off with a little yelp of surprise when they both notice him standing at the counter, one brow raised with an air that she knows is only meant to _appear_ politely patient.

 

“Hey!” she says, hopping down from the counter. “What’re you doing here?”

 

Roan’s eyes slide from her to Bellamy, who’s frowning slightly at the appearance of a stranger who’s apparently familiar with Clarke. “Believe it or not, to me, this actually _is_ the best damn coffee in town.”

 

Clarke laughs readily at that, already in a good mood from the thirty minutes she’s just spent messing around with Bellamy.

 

“Thanks,” Bellamy says, stepping up beside Clarke as he wipes his hands off on a dishcloth. “Can I get you one of those, or…?”

 

“Do I get a discount if I say I’m a student?” Roan asks with a deliberate arch of a brow. Clarke laughs again, shaking her head as she steps aside to give Bellamy room at the register.

 

“Not that I’d believe you,” Bellamy says, giving Roan’s tied-back hair, ragged scruff and polished grey suit a disbelieving once-over, “but we haven’t done student discounts in a good long while.”

 

Clarke shrugs easily at Roan’s questioning glance. “Okay, maybe it’s more of a roommates discount. Which we are. This is Bellamy, by the way,” she says, gesturing to the man beside her who’s being completely unsubtle about trying to solve Roan purely by glaring warily at him.

 

“Roan,” Roan says, smoothly putting out his hand before Bellamy even has time to blink. “The Tony to Clarke’s Maria.”

 

“Not even close,” Clarke scoffs with a grin. “Roan’s mother ran against mine a few years back,” she explains to Bellamy, not seeming to notice the way he stiffens midway through shaking Roan’s hand.

 

“A fruitless endeavour from the start,” Roan says, releasing Bellamy’s hand. “Madam Griffin is a formidable opponent.”

 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Clarke says with a nod, with the slightest hint of pride in her tone.

 

“Just a regular coffee, then?” Bellamy suddenly says, a little louder than strictly necessary.

 

Roan’s sharp gaze peruses Bellamy’s taut face for a second before he nods, a brief dip of his head. “Make it a double.”

 

Bellamy spins on his heel before Roan’s even finished speaking, already starting on the order.

 

“So what do you do, anyway?” Clarke asks as Bellamy’s busy preparing the coffee.

 

Roan’s amused gaze lingers on Bellamy’s profile. “Same as the last ten years. Investments, trading, et cetera.”

 

“Like stocks?”

 

Roan’s eyes cut to her, one side of his mouth curving upwards. “Something like that.”

 

Clarke wrinkles her nose at his attire. “Do you always have to wear suits for that?”

 

“Only if we know the client tips really, really well,” he says instantly, expression sombre. Clarke laughs at that, and Bellamy suddenly reappears at her side, sliding Roan’s coffee across the counter.

 

Roan picks the cardboard cup up, and Clarke suddenly realises that he never actually specifically requested a takeaway order.

 

“Thanks,” he says to Bellamy, handing him a ten-dollar bill.

 

Bellamy hands him back his change, the neutral expression on his face decidedly more shuttered than cordial. “Cream and sugar packets are by the door.”

 

Roan raises his cup to Bellamy in a gesture of acknowledgement, a small smile playing on his lips. “See you if I see you,” he says to Clarke as he turns away.

 

Clarke isn’t sure why, but for the next hour or so, Bellamy is in a foul mood.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Clarke slows to a walk, hands going to her sides as she struggles to catch her breath.

 

Raven suddenly appears at her side, a sheen of sweat still layered over her brown skin. “Beat you again,” she says with a devilish grin.

 

Clarke huffs, waving an impatient hand. “Only by, like, a minute.”

 

“Try _ten_ minutes,” Raven says, tossing her long ponytail over her shoulder. “I think the sprints I did while waiting for you might’ve been more of a workout than the whole thirty-minute run.”

 

Clarke straightens slightly to shake her head at Raven as they move to avoid a couple kids on their bikes. “See, this is why I don’t run with Bellamy anymore.”

 

“Oh, _really_?” Raven waggles her brows suggestively at Clarke. “You’re _sure_ it has nothing to do with how all your self-control basically goes up in smoke when he’s all sweaty and shirtless and—”

 

“You are,” Clarke interrupts primly, ignoring the fierce flush spreading across her chest and cheeks, “truly horrid.”

 

“Come _on_ , Clarke,” Raven continues, a slight skip entering her step. “You can _barely_ deal when he’s fully clothed. Nothing wrong with admitting that you totally want to jump his bones and _pound_ that—”

 

“Maybe I should stick with a frontal approach from now on.”

 

Both girls start in surprise, whirling round to face a sweaty, lightly panting Roan.

 

“Hello,” he says, arching an amused brow. “Gentle reminder that there are children around.”

 

Clarke laughs, only slightly embarrassed at this point in her friendship with Raven Reyes and far too out of breath to care. “Always good to keep in mind,” she agrees cheerfully but stiltedly, still trying to attain some kind of regular breathing pattern. “Roan, this is Raven. She lives with me and Bellamy.”

 

“Always nice to meet a roommate of Clarke’s,” Roan says, putting one hand out in greeting. “How many are there, exactly?”

 

Raven doesn’t take his outstretched hand. “You make a habit of eavesdropping on private conversations?”

 

He lifts a brow, slowly retracting his hand as his gaze rakes over Raven’s bold red sports bra and black, form-fitting leggings. “Only when I’m already coming in from behind.”

 

Raven crosses her arms aggressively. “Not everyone appreciates being snuck up on.”

 

“Okay, well, no one’s sneaking anywhere,” Clarke interjects with a breathless laugh. “It _is_ a public park, Raven.”

 

“As I thought it was,” Roan says, his hard eyes still fixed on Raven’s unamused face. 

 

Clarke clears her throat, uncomfortable with Raven’s sudden lack of cordiality. “You run here too?”

 

“Every day,” Roan answers smoothly, his gaze sliding back to Clarke even as Raven continues to glare daggers at him. “Usually much earlier than this, though. Around six A.M.”

 

“Wow, sun’s barely out then,” Raven cuts in, cocking her head. “Must be a lot less to eavesdrop on.”

 

Roan’s lips curve sideways as he regards her. “I would suppose so. Can’t be entirely sure, though,” he says, one hand coming up to tap on one side of the earphones dangling around his neck, partially hidden by the strands of dark hair too short to fit in with the rest of his ponytailed locks.

 

“ _Okay_ ,” Clarke announces with a hand on Raven’s elbow, having spotted the brunette’s features shifting into something decidedly dangerous. “Let’s go get you a nice, cold isotonic drink, yeah? Enjoy the rest of your run, Roan,” she says to the man still watching her roommate with a glint in his eye that she doesn’t know how to interpret.

 

“You two ladies have a good evening,” he says with a small nod, already moving to let them by.

 

“Yeah, hey,” Raven suddenly calls, making him freeze in his tracks. “Look out for the surprise shit piles.” She bares her pearly white teeth in the parody of a grin, all edges and no warmth. “Never know when you’re gonna end up ankle-deep in someone’s dog crap.”

 

Clarke stares in stunned surprise as Roan laughs — actually _laughs_. It’s short and brief and barely more than an audible exhalation of breath, but it’s _real_.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, one hand fisting in the hem of his sleeveless running shirt to drag it upwards, mopping at his sweat-soaked neck and coincidentally, revealing a flash of very, _very_ unmistakably defined abs. He nods again before turning away and fluidly moving into an even jog, his muscled arms pumping along with his long strides.

 

“Holy _shit_?” Clarke exclaims as they head out of the park.

 

Raven casts a disgruntled glance at her. “What?”

 

“Are we seriously not going to talk about how that was the weirdest fucking display of flirting I’ve ever seen in my _life_?” Clarke demands incredulously, eyes goggled.

 

Raven scoffs, shaking her head. “That was not flirting.”

 

Clarke grins playfully, bumping her shoulder into Raven’s. “Aw, come on, Raven. Nothing wrong with admitting that you totally want to jump his bones and _pound_ that—”

 

“Don’t be an idiot, Clarke,” Raven sniffs. “There’s a difference between recognising that someone is physically attractive and actually _flirting_ with them.”

 

“Oh,” Clarke says, her grin widening, “so you think Roan is _hot_.”

 

“Your _grandmother_ would think Roan is hot,” Raven says loftily, rolling her eyes. “Your grandfather too, while we’re at it. But he’s a hot guy who’s also a douchebag, and we all know those are bad news.”

 

Clarke squints, humming in mock uncertainty. “I don’t know, kind of sounds like your type.”

 

She feels a giddy spike of triumph when Raven doesn’t even bother to punch her in the arm.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I mean, do we even _really_ need a new bookshelf,” Bellamy grumbles as they push out of their building.

 

“I find it absolutely incredible that you’re the one asking that question,” Clarke tells him as she looks around for a car that evidently hasn’t yet arrived. “You realise my DVD shelves are slowly being overrun by your ever-increasing collection of secondhand paperbacks?”

 

“No one’s stopping you from _reading_ some,” Bellamy points out, leaning back against the wall of the building as she toes the kerb, looking up and down the street.

 

“A picture’s worth a thousand words,” she says idly as she spins back around, grinning at the way he shakes his head, all messy curls and fond exasperation.

 

“You can read _and_ do art, princess,” he says, unable to stop from smiling at her.

 

“Both valuable skills in my opinion,” a voice says, and they both immediately turn towards it.

 

“Okay,” Clarke says with a grin, glancing over at Bellamy as he pushes off the building to move to her side, “this is seriously getting creepy now. What are you doing here?”

 

Roan’s gaze travels over both of them, not quite smiling but definitely amused. “On my way to a friend’s place. And yourselves?”

 

“We live here,” Bellamy says, slightly jerkily.

 

Roan arches a brow, casting a deliberate glance round at the pavement they’re standing on. “Would you like my spare change?”

 

“This is our _building_ , asshole,” Clarke says with a laugh, somehow feeling comfortable enough to start inserting playful insults in conversation with Roan. He’s met two of her prickliest friends and still doesn’t hesitate to approach her when he sees her in public — she’d say that’s a pretty good sign of friendship. “We’re actually waiting for our roommate, she’s bringing back a new bookcase for the apartment because _this_ one—” she nudges Bellamy with an elbow, “—refuses to seek professional help for his hoarding problem.”

 

“Ah,” Roan says, gaze darting to Bellamy and back to Clarke. “Your roommate, as in Raven?”

 

“Octavia,” Clarke corrects, trying and failing to hide the smugness in her smile at Roan’s clear interest in Raven. “Bellamy’s sister.”

 

“Another roommate,” Roan observes with a small smile, though Clarke doesn’t miss the way his shoulders drop ever so slightly. “How many more can I expect from you?”

 

“That’s all of us,” Clarke reassures him with a laugh, swaying into Bellamy’s side with the motion.

 

“Does your friend live around here?” Bellamy suddenly asks — only it doesn’t sound curious at all, Clarke notes as she glances up at him uncertainly.

 

“A block or two to go,” Roan answers, either not noticing or not responding to Bellamy’s curtness.

 

“Great,” Bellamy says flatly. “Don’t let us keep you, then.”

 

Clarke catches a distinct gleam in Roan’s gaze as it flicks between her and Bellamy before he nods. “I’ll leave you to your bookshelf. You two have a good evening.”

 

Bellamy’s shoulder is still stiff when she bumps hers into it. “You okay?”

 

“Yep,” he replies brusquely, looking out at the street. “That looks like Lincoln’s car.”

 

She doesn’t ask again, but when they finally get the sturdy bookcase situated just right in the living room and start filling it with Bellamy’s homeless books and the DVDs they’ve accumulated together over the last couple of years, he seems to have completely reverted back to normal, cracking dry jokes and arguing with her over who it was that bought their collector’s edition copy of _V for Vendetta_.

 

 

 

 

 

“For the last time,” Raven grits later that night as she pulls open their alcohol cupboard, “I am _not_ interested in him.”

 

“He’s _hot_ , he’s clearly _successful_ , and he’s one of, like, _twelve_ guys on the planet who don’t run off with their tail between their legs when you open your mouth and don't bother to censor,” Clarke argues with a shit-eating grin as she retrieves three empty glasses. “What more could you possibly want?”

 

“Clarke,” Raven says carefully, selecting a bottle of red wine. “Not to come off as classist or anything, but there is absolutely no way a guy can maintain that kind of bankroll _and_ a healthy ego.”

 

Clarke frowns, passing Raven the bottle opener. “Bankroll? What bankroll?”

 

Raven raises a brow at her. “He’s _your_ friend. Don’t you know what he does for a living?”

 

Clarke furrows her brow, trying to pull the information up in her head. “He’s an investor or something. Something about buying shit. Or selling shit.” She shrugs. “So what?”

 

“Not just _shit_ , Clarke,” Raven says, shaking her head as she waves the bottle opener at the blonde. “Companies. He buys _companies_ , Clarke. And before you start,” she continues, holding up a hand when Clarke opens her mouth, “yes, I did look him up online, okay? Doesn’t mean anything. I look everybody up online. I even looked _Monty_ up online when we first met, and he’s about as harmless as a blind puppy.”

 

“Stop trying to change the subject,” Clarke commands, watching Raven work the cork off the bottle. “Okay, whatever, all things to do with money aside — will you, or will you not admit that you are _totally_ bummed that you missed Roan today?”

 

“I will _admit_ ,” Raven huffs over the stubborn cork, “that you’re _totally_ delusional. Is Octavia staying at Lincoln’s tonight, by the way?”

 

“You know full well she is, you _avoider_ ,” Clarke accuses, rolling her eyes when Raven lifts a mildly appalled brow. “I can’t think what’s the proper word for it right now, okay?”

 

“I am not _avoiding_ anything,” Raven says, calmly popping the cork out and reaching for a glass. “Why the hell should I care about you guys running into Roan?”

 

“Because he was wearing this black button-down shirt, and dark jeans, and he was working the _fuck_ outta both of them?” Clarke offers, eyes widening innocently at the glare Raven shoots her.

 

Raven pushes the bottle of wine at her, flouncing away from the counter with her own filled glass. “Pour your own fucking wine for you and your _boyfriend_ , Griffin.”

 

“He is _not_ my boyfriend,” Clarke hisses after her, scandalised at the possibility that Bellamy might _just_ have heard Raven’s flippant comment from the living room.

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

“Last one gets the first round!” Jasper announces, jabbing a finger in Clarke’s direction.

 

She groans, fingers running through her loose blonde waves. “Raven’s not even here yet!”

 

“First round!” Harper and Miller echo loudly, pointing insistently at the bar.

 

So she ends up at the bar, trying to wave down the bartender who’s got his hands full making what looks like twenty margaritas for a gaggle of ladies in the corner.

 

“Help me,” she complains when Bellamy returns from the bathroom and finds her there, already laughing at the way she’s staring balefully at the empty tray in front of her like it’s to blame for everything in life.

 

“Technically, we’re both the latest,” Bellamy allows, bracing a hand on the counter beside her.

 

“Technically, _Raven_ is the latest,” Clarke retorts, sagging against his side. “Which, what the fuck? Wasn’t she at home?”

 

Bellamy shrugs, one arm sliding around to rub comforting circles into her back. “She probably just lost track of time, princess.”

 

“Well she’s paying me back for this round because this is _unacceptable_ ,” Clarke grumbles, even though they both know she doesn’t mean a word of it.

 

“What’s unacceptable now?” Raven asks, suddenly appearing on Clarke’s other side.

 

Clarke brandishes a finger in her direction, scowling half-heartedly. “You. Order beer. Now.”

 

Raven laughs, her long dark hair falling over her shoulder. Clarke catches a whiff of shampoo and is almost envious, having just spent the last two hours in an energy-draining meeting with difficult clients, a meeting that was supposed to last thirty minutes tops.

 

“What’s crawled up _your_ butt, Clarke?” she teases, smirking pointedly at Bellamy’s hand still on Clarke’s back.

 

“Nothing contagious, I hope.”

 

All three of them jerk around at the unexpected sight of—

 

“Okay!” Clarke exclaims, straightening in surprise. “How the _fuck_ are you doing that?!”

 

Roan arches a brow at her, faintly entertained. “I’m tracking your phone via GPS.”

 

Clarke laughs at the hint of dry amusement that’s becoming increasingly easy to identify in the rough timbre of Roan’s voice, but quickly trails off when she feels Bellamy’s hand stiffen on her back. “That’s a very funny _joke_ ,” she says, glancing emphatically at Bellamy. “Because that didn’t _actually_ happen.”

 

Raven rolls her eyes, one hand coming up to her hip. “Yeah, absolutely hilarious when people make creepy ass cracks about stalking and—” her nose scrunches in consideration, “—and, well. Ass cracks.”

 

“I have been told I’ve a lousy sense of humour,” Roan asserts, the glint in his eyes offsetting his grave expression.

 

“Try _terrible_ ,” Raven corrects flatly, tossing her hair back over her shoulder.

 

“And here I thought I might be catching you on a good day,” Roan says, his gaze travelling over her with appraisal, and something that looks pretty damn close to approval.

 

“It _was_ ,” Raven answers, following her remark with a pointed pause as she returns his stare dead-on, leaving no room for misinterpretation as to her meaning.

 

“ _So_ good to see you,” Clarke cuts in abruptly when Roan and Raven’s stare-down goes on a little _too_ long for comfort. She smiles, leaning away from the tension radiating from other two and into Bellamy’s comforting warmth. “Again, that is.”

 

“You as well,” Roan says, and even though he’s still looking at Raven, Clarke gets the distinct impression he’s addressing all three of them.

 

“Enjoy your night,” Bellamy says, and Clarke blinks a little at the unexpected degree of sincerity in his tone.

 

Roan’s gaze flicks over to Bellamy and Clarke, and back to Raven. “I will.”

 

When he disappears from the counter to join a table on the other side of the bar, Raven suddenly turns on her heel, muttering something about saying hi to the rest of the gang as she heads for their booth.

 

Clarke exchanges a stunned glance with Bellamy.

 

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he says, clearing his throat, “but just then, it really looked like they—”

 

“Yep,” she says with a nod.

 

Bellamy glances over at their booth. “So Raven—”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And Roan—”

 

“Very much so, yes.”

 

Bellamy’s gaping slightly by the time his gaze lands back on her. “Oh, thank God.”

 

Of all the responses Clarke has been expecting, that one definitely isn’t anywhere near the top of the list. “That sounds a lot like relief,” she says, lifting a questioning brow.

 

“Yeah, I just—” Bellamy scrubs a hand over his face, sighing heavily before turning back to her with an air of resignation. “I kind of— I thought Roan was hitting on you all this time?”

 

Clarke’s jaw drops. “ _What?_ ”

 

He shakes his head, wincing nervously. “I didn’t realise— I just assumed—”

 

Clarke blinks, holding up a hand. “Wait. Is that why you’re always extra weird around him?”

 

He exhales deeply. “Yeah, I just—” He pauses, frowning indignantly. “What do you mean by _extra_ wei—”

 

He’s cut off by her lips on his, her hands cupping his head to pull him down to her even as she pushes up towards him. His arms instantly go around her waist to support her as she presses in closer, her fingers curling fervently into his hair. He makes a sound of frustration against her mouth when she tries to end the kiss, his arms tightening around her as his lips chase after hers, and she can’t help but laugh into their second kiss, readily sliding her arms back around his neck.

 

“Don’t worry,” she says when they finally break apart, her hands pressing flat against his chest. “Roan is hot — but he’s not my type.”

 

“Yeah, no,” Bellamy says, his face scrunching up in distaste. “Let’s not talk about other people you find hot right now.”

 

She hums in consideration, leaning her weight into his body so her front is pressed flush to his. “Does that mean I can’t talk about how hot I find you, either?”

 

His gaze darkens, fingers digging into her waist so she can feel their heat even through her shirt. “I said _other_ people, princess. Feel free to talk about me all you want.”

 

Somebody must notice them kissing for a third time, because cheers and whoops suddenly erupt from their booth, Jasper and Miller pounding the table excitedly as Monty lets out a surprisingly impressive wolf whistle.

 

 

 

 

 

One hour and several pitchers of beer later, Clarke drags herself from the warmth of Bellamy’s arm to make for the bathroom. She frowns in confusion when the doorknob doesn’t give way to let her in, a little tipsy from the celebratory shots Harper had insisted on buying.

 

She tries the knob again, and lifts a hand to knock on the door. “Hello?”

 

She hears a distinct thud, and a rustling sound undercut by a murmur that is definitely pitched far too low to be anywhere _near_ feminine.

 

“Anyone in there?” Clarke asks, raising her voice a little.

 

A muffled curse, and then—

 

“Fucking _occupado_!” a familiar, female voice snaps through the door.

 

Clarke’s jaw drops for the second time that night, and she turns to walk back down the small corridor, casting one last bemused glance over her shoulder at the locked door.

 

“Not one word,” Raven commands flatly as she slides back into the booth, hair and clothes thoroughly rumpled and lipstick all but gone.

 

Clarke smiles across the table at Raven’s thin-lipped expression, framed against the backdrop of a very dishevelled Roan emerging from of the dim corridor leading to the bathroom, roughly tugging the collar of his black button-down into place with one hand and smoothing over his mussed up hair with the other.

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says sweetly, settling back into Bellamy’s side.

 

 

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed it! thanks for reading it all the way to the end whether or not you did =)
> 
> not sure if this matters to anyone or not, but i tacked on 'Gunnar' to Roan's name because it originates from a scandinavian word for 'warrior'. there's your #ficfact of the day.
> 
> kudos and comments are very much appreciated because i'm ~~starved for attention~~ always eager to hear what you think!  
>  (also because i may or may not already have a chapter 2 written in raven's pov and i'm wondering if anyone's interested in seeing that.)


	2. part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven is sure she’s got Roan all figured out within the first five seconds of meeting him.
> 
> She just flat out refuses to buy that façade of moderated placidity — no fucking way, not with eyes like _that_ , and _certainly_ not with a face like that.
> 
> … Not that it’s a _bad_ face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all the love on this fic!
> 
> here's raven's pov, as promised! this is VERY ice mechanic-centric, so don't expect much bellarke. 
> 
> (i have never in my life thought i would say those last five words.)

 

 

 

 

 

Raven is sure she’s got Roan all figured out within the first five seconds of meeting him.

 

He sneaks up behind her and Clarke and unleashes a truly fucking _weird_ greeting that she’s almost _positive_ is intentionally endowed with a double meaning, all before actually informing them that _‘there are children around’_.

 

He definitely doesn’t seem like the excitable, enthusiastic type of socialiser. No one with _that_ kind of rasp for a voice is. Even so, he’s pretty damn slick with navigating social niceties — almost unnervingly so.

 

He’s clearly comfortable meeting new people, but in a very specific way that makes her feel like it’s somehow her own responsibility for forming a good impression of him in her head. Which, okay, _fuck_ no. (She’s _Raven fucking Reyes_. She doesn’t just _hand out_ her respect; people fight tooth and nail to _earn_ it.)

 

She calls him out on his ( _very_ rude) eavesdropping tendencies, and he has the goddamn _gall_ to respond with _another_ innuendo — one that she’s willing to bet good money is one _hundred_ percent intentional.

 

Above all, there’s something in the way he holds himself that just sets her teeth on edge from the minute she lays her eyes on him. Whenever he speaks, he barely says more than seven words in a row — and yet, she gets the distinct feeling that he’s always one step ahead of the curve, constantly measuring reactions and anticipating responses with finely honed perception.

 

The _words_ coming out of his mouth certainly _sound_ normal enough, but it’s the _way_ he says them that just riles her up — too calm, too even, too fucking _temperate_ to be genuine. She just flat out refuses to buy that façade of moderated placidity — no fucking way, not with eyes like _that_ , and _certainly_ not with a face like that.

 

… Not that it’s a _bad_ face.

 

She’s definitely seen worse, at least.

 

But none of that really matters, because out of this entire steaming heap of shit. the worst fucking thing isn’t even any of the above.

 

She’s _attracted_ to him.

 

And that, right off the bat, is all the reason in the world for her not to trust him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Raven hasn’t exactly had the best luck with men.

 

There was Finn, but nobody likes to talk about him. (For good fucking reason, she reminds herself fiercely whenever thoughts of him float to the surface.)

 

Wick might have fared better, but once he accepted a promotion that moved him across the country, that was that. (Him not bothering to ask her what she even _thinks_ about long-distance relationships was more than enough reason to let that ship sail far, far off.)

 

At this point, she’s almost certain that her taste in females is just much better than her taste in men.

 

In terms of quality, at least. She seems to possess an unfortunate knack for developing heady attractions only for girls who are unavailable, or simply not attracted to her in the same way.

 

There’s still Clarke — but Clarke is different. For Raven, Clarke is in that special category that transcends definition. Does she love Clarke? For sure. Would she take a bullet for Clarke? Absolutely. Would she sleep with Clarke? She’s sure it wouldn’t be too much of a struggle.

 

And yet, for some reason, she and Clarke just don’t feel that _pull_ towards each other. They had a couple drunken make out sessions when they first became friends, but once Raven met Bellamy, she took several steps back.

 

She’s got an IQ of 144, okay? She knows better than to try and compete with what Clarke and Bellamy have.

 

(Even if they’re too goddamn _stupid_ to see it for themselves. Idiots.)

 

So that’s where she’s at now, romantically speaking. That is to say, there is no romance.

 

She’s not _celibate_ , of course. She goes to gyms and bars. She hits on people (when she feels like it), and gets hit on (regardless of how she feels, unfortunately). She has hook-ups and one-night stands. She opens Tinder whenever she suddenly remembers that the app is still on her phone.

 

She stays busy that way, but she’s never properly, _seriously_ attracted to anyone. She keeps it skin-deep, and that works for her. It leaves her time and energy for both work and her friends, and that’s what’s most important to her.

 

So when Roan flashes his perfectly sculpted torso at her before running off, there’s an uncomfortable clenching in her gut — but it’s not because she feels the flare of attraction.

 

It’s because she realises the flare had instantly sparked into a full-fledged flame the minute he’d arched his brow at her and directly met her eye as he’d talked about _‘coming in from behind’_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

But Clarke is right. She _does_ seem to have a thing for douchebags, and it’s cost her dearly in the past. Come hell or high water, it’s not going to cost her anything ever again.

 

All the same, she can’t quite stop herself from flipping her laptop open to do a quick search on Roan.

 

Her ‘quick search’ quickly turns into fifty minutes and nearly as many open tabs on her browser. It’s basically impossible to get anywhere, so she splits the overcrowded tabs into a couple more windows.

 

She spends the entire time chanting _‘know thy enemy’_ in her head.

 

She scans through several business and finance articles, a bunch of profiles done on him, and, frankly speaking, she’s damn near offended that there isn’t a Men’s Health spread thrown in the bunch. Lord knows he looks decent enough for any health or fitness magazine on the planet to want to throw him into a gym and sic a photographer on him. He already looks _unfairly_ good to begin with, but clever angles and lighting and strategic touches of Photoshop transform him _completely_.

 

At the same time, her mind keeps flashing back to images of him backlit by the setting sun — a living, breathing portrait of rough scruff and dark hair and piercing eyes. Professionally done headshots and pictures of him in impeccably tailored business suits are all very well, but it’s like they only manage to capture a _part_ of him.

 

So, yeah, gun to her head, she sort of maybe has the _slightest_ of preferences for real life Roan to photographed Roan.

 

By, like, a fraction of a hairsbreadth. Specifically, the hair of a ninety-two-year-old man — faint, and thin, and fragile.

 

Also, there’s the fact that photos can’t speak to her in a low voice rich with rasp and assured certainty.

 

She searches high and low, but the man has apparently zero social media presence. It’s kind of a problem for her, because it doesn’t really take a genius-level IQ score to notice that while his answers are always perfectly eloquent and brimming over with charisma and smooth confidence, he never actually _says_ anything about his personal life.

 

She briefly considers hacking into his iCloud account or something, which quickly turns into _seriously_ considering it, but then she spends a good five minutes debating whether that makes her seem way too eager — even if it's just to herself — and eventually decides she's better than that.

 

She _does_ , however, find out that he is thirty-two years old, is of Icelandic descent, doesn’t have any siblings, and is exactly six feet tall, which, okay, yep, whatever, is completely fine by her. She even manages to unearth the fact that he has a couple gym memberships around the city — both establishments clearly more upscale than she's used to.

 

It doesn’t help that when she gets into really _reading_ the articles and profiles properly, he sounds a _lot_ more intelligent and astute than she’d anticipated. She even finds herself nodding unwittingly at some of his answers, nearly all of which almost always seem to tackle some surprisingly unique aspect of a seemingly commonplace question. (Just _small_ nods. The barest bob of her head.)

 

She’s pretty sure he’s still a douchebag — but _fuck_ , he’s a _smart_ one.

 

“You just need to get laid,” she mutters to herself, closing the tabs one by one instead of just exiting the browser — which is definitely a lot _easier_ , but wouldn’t give her a chance for a last look at all the pictures of him. “You have Tinder, use that. Get dressed and go out. Watch some fucking porn and masturbate like a _normal_ person or something.”

 

She doesn’t end up doing any of those.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She usually hates disruptions to her work routine, but for once, she’s grateful for the half day off she and her co-workers get when their bosses have some kind of important meeting across departments.

 

She’s been more and more distracted over the past week, but she’d sooner jab a Phillips screwdriver into her eye socket than admit that her scattered state of mind has anything to do with He Who Shall _Not_ , Under Any Fucking Circumstances, Be Named — but it starts with R, and it rhymes with moan, and oh fuck that makes her think of the sound she’d probably make if he would spread her thighs open and—

 

Exhibit A: Raven Reyes’s best laid plans going to shit.

 

So she goes home to a blessedly empty apartment, and she spends thirty minutes working up a good, hard sweat with the help of a jump rope. Afterwards, she runs a nice hot bath and she spends much longer soaking in it than she _really_ needs to, only because she can’t have a good time with her friends later if all she’s thinking about is how fucking _horny_ she is, okay?

 

She feels marginally better by the time she’s drying herself off with a towel — good enough to go with a stretchy, curve-hugging black skirt instead of the jeans she usually throws on for Friday night drinks. She balances it out with her worn old combat boots, and by the time she’s done with blow-drying her long mane and a swipe of mascara and lipstick, she’s definitely feeling a lot more like _herself_.

 

She walks into the bar, feeling happy and light and fucking _buoyant_ enough to start giving Bellamy and Clarke shit for their hopelessness within the first two minutes, but because life’s a bitch and then you die, who else turns up _right_ at that moment looking _offensively_ sexy in a _simple fucking black shirt_ than Roan himself.

 

She tries to refrain from engaging him, she really does — pressing her lips together to keep her mouth shut, avoiding direct eye contact as far as she can without looking like she forgot to take her ADHD meds, but he makes that _stupid and not at all charming_ quip about tracking Clarke’s phone and, okay, there’s only so much she can take, _alright_?

 

She’s fully aware of Clarke and Bellamy gaping at them as she trades barbs with Roan, and fuck if their exchange doesn’t kick up a very familiar stirring in her gut that makes her feel like she should shut up and walk away before she socks him in the face or climbs him like a tree.

 

For violent, _maiming_ reasons. Needless to say, of course.

 

She’s honestly not sure if she wants to thank Clarke or resent her when the blonde interrupts, but she watches Roan nod at her before turning away, and she’s struck by a sudden sensation that feels a lot like _reeling_.

 

 

 

 

 

She’s not exactly sure what happens after that, but whatever it is, it combines with a few generous doses of malted alcohol in her bloodstream to result in her slamming Roan into the door of the ladies’ bathroom, blindly clicking the lock into place while he nips at her bottom lip.

 

“You drinking whiskey?” she demands when he crowds her into the adjoining wall, pressing her into the space right beside the sink.

 

He smirks at her, hitching her leg up around his waist as she wrenches the buttons of his shirt open one by one. “Macallan,” he breathes into her neck, his tongue darting out to brush a line of wet heat across the flushed skin.

 

She scrunches her eyes shut, willing them not to roll up at the pleasurable sensation before letting them fly open again, fixing him with a glare. “So fucking _pretentious_ ,” she bites out, yanking impatiently at his belt buckle.

 

He swoops in to capture her lips again, one hand raking into her hair to tilt her face up for a better angle, his tongue delving boldly into her mouth to tangle with hers, wet and hot and dirty.

 

“If you wanted another taste,” he says against her lips, one hand still holding her face securely in place as the other drags down her thigh to cup her ass, “all you had to do was _ask_.”

 

He emphasises the last word with a sharp squeeze, fingers digging deliciously into the rounded flesh before pulling hard, so that her covered core comes into direct contact with his denim-covered groin.

 

She rolls her eyes, shoving down an even bigger wave of arousal in favour of attempting to undo the fly of his jeans with much less finesse than she usually employs. She’s in the tiny, cramped bathroom of a second-rate bar — she’s not really looking to rack up any style points here. “What I _want_ ,” she growls back, “is for you to stop fucking talking and get this fucking thing _off_.”

 

By some miracle, his erection gets freed and her skirt gets hitched up around her hips without one of them killing the other, and he bends to bite at the exposed skin above the low neckline of her tank top, right where the swell of her breasts begin.

 

“Next time,” she gasps when he reaches up to palm at the globes of her chest, lazy and savouring and way too fucking _slow_ for how keyed up she is right now.

 

He smirks at her again, but it’s different somehow. She can’t pinpoint the exact difference beyond the unsettling feeling that it’s a smile that _should_ be a smirk.

 

“As you wish,” he says simply, before sliding his hands down her body and around to the backs of her thighs, gripping her and lifting her up in one smooth move, his hard cock now pressed directly against her soaked entrance, guarded only by a thin layer of cotton.

 

“You’ll have to guide me in,” he murmurs into the juncture between her neck and shoulders, and she can barely focus through the feeling of his beard scraping across her sensitive skin to properly process his words.

 

But she somehow manages it, and she reaches down with both hands, one to pull her underwear to one side and the other to curl around his fully erect dick. She starts to pump him a little, but she stops when he grunts, fingers digging into her thighs in warning.

 

“What?” she asks, worried she’s being too impatient, too eager — coming on too strong.

 

He lifts his head to grin at her, panting through his teeth. “Next time,” he says, a playful edge to his ragged voice.

 

She can’t help but grin in return, her hand curling back around his cock. “You fucking wish,” she retorts, still smiling, and guides him into her.

 

Both of them groan deeply once he’s inside of her, his hardness pushing inside her slick channel with almost no trouble at all, swelling lightly inside of her.

 

He moves his hips, drawing slowly out of her before driving back into her firmly, and holy fucking _shit._ She’s had good dick before, but this is fucking _otherworldly_.

 

“Wait,” she gasps when he starts to move again, her fingers clenching on his shoulders. They’re still covered by his shirt, the material impeding her fingertips’ access to his bare skin — but at least it’s hanging open, exposing the ridges and planes of his body.

 

She hesitates, looking up at him as she tries to focus on his eyes rather than the feeling of his cock still inside her. “Be _quiet_ , okay? I don’t know about you, but with my luck, there’s a solid, eighty-six percent chance of some drunk floozy looking to get in right when it starts getting good.”

 

He arches a brow in response, fingers flexing on her thighs. “Should I be concerned about the kind of statistics you seem to keep?”

 

She rolls her eyes, and crosses her ankles behind his back, drawing him closer to her. “You know what? Next time, I’ll save the heads up for someone who actually _deserves_ it. Now _move_.”

 

His mouth curves into another grin, and he shifts her in his arms, tossing a little more vigorously than he _really_ needs to in order to readjust his grip. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You forgot to mention,” Roan says when they’re yanking their clothes back into place, “that the ‘drunk floozy looking to get in’ would be your roommate.”

 

Raven lifts a brow at him, fingers combing hurriedly through her hair in a doomed attempt at getting rid of its unmistakable just-had-sex vibe. “One: Don’t say ‘floozy’. It sounds way too weird coming from you. And, two: Should I be concerned about the kind of statistics you want me to keep?”

 

To her surprise, he actually lets out a chuckle. “We’ll discuss it,” he says, placing his hands on her hips to turn her around to face him, pressing his lips to hers in a way that’s sultry, but firm. He pulls away, cocking his head at her as he takes a step back to start redoing his shirt buttons. “Next time.”

 

 

 

 

Only there’s not going to _be_ a next time, she tells herself as she pushes out of the bathroom first, self-consciously tugging her skirt down. She just needed to get Roan out of her system, to work off the frustration, and she’s done that.

 

So there’s not going to _be_ a next time, she repeats in her head when Clarke smiles at her across the table, all smug and _knowing_.

 

She doesn’t let herself wonder why she hadn’t stopped for two seconds to tell Roan just that before leaving.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed it =) 
> 
> thank you again if you liked it enough to leave kudos =) and thank you SO much if you took the time to leave a little comment! it really does help so much to hear what you think.
> 
> (for example, i'm seriously considering adding a couple more chapters to this, or maybe starting a completely new bellarke+ice mechanic fic because something about this ~pairing of pairings~ really does it for me. thoughts would be very welcome!)
> 
> as always, feel free to come say hi [on tumblr](http://caramellakers.tumblr.com)!


End file.
